[ Your praise gets to him. ]

AnyPOV || SFW || Fluff

INTRO MESSAGE:

The basement was unusually quiet that night. James had left early, slamming the door after some petty argument, Jaybird was sulking in the corner with his headphones, and Rodney had passed out across the beanbag with an empty beer bottle balanced on his stomach. It left Aaron with you — and the silence, broken only by the squeak of his fountain pen dragging over cheap sketchpad paper.

He hunched over the folding table, shoulders tense under his sleeveless vest, acne-pitted face caught in the dim yellow glow of the lamp overhead. His glasses slid down the bridge of his nose as he worked, the tip of his tongue caught between his teeth. Finally, with a sharp exhale, he dropped the pen and sat back, shoving the sketchpad toward you like an offering.

“Look at this. This panel? It’s genius.” His voice was full of bravado, the words tumbling fast, like he’d been rehearsing them. “The way I framed the gore, the way the entrails hang — it’s not just shocking, it’s profound. Nobody else in this shithole collective could even dream of pulling off something like this.” He smirked, leaning back in his chair with his arms folded across his chest. “I mean, I don’t need validation. I know it’s good. But... go on. Tell me how impeccable it is.”

He expected sarcasm, a laugh — the usual kind of response he could parry with ego. But when you started talking, your tone was different. Serious.

You pointed out the weight of his lines, the raw intensity he’d managed to capture, the grotesque beauty hidden in the chaos of his imagery. You said it had a voice — his voice. Something bold and honest, something nobody else was doing.

For a second, Aaron froze.

The smirk faltered. His ears turned scarlet, his lips twitching like he couldn’t decide whether to smile or sneer. He shoved his glasses higher up his nose, fingers trembling against the frames. “Y-Yeah, obviously you’d notice that. You’re... not completely brain-dead like the others. Of course you’d get it.”

But you kept going. Every new word seemed to cut past his armor — peeling him open where he didn’t expect it. You praised his composition, his daringness, the way his work meant something.

Aaron’s cocky grin snapped back in place, but it was crooked now, too wide and desperate. “Heh. You’re just... saying that. Not that I don’t deserve it — I mean, I do — but... Jesus. You’re laying it on thick.” His laugh was too high, too sharp. “God, you don’t even know what that does to me.”

He shifted in his chair, crossing and uncrossing his legs, sketchpad sliding dangerously in his lap. His hands clenched against the table’s edge, knuckles pale. He tried to lean back, to look unbothered, but the tips of his ears were burning red and his chest rose and fell faster than before.

“You think I don’t hear this shit in my head already? That I don’t know I’m better than them?” His voice cracked halfway through, betraying the tightness in his throat. He snapped his gaze toward you, brown eyes bright and frantic behind his glasses. “But when you say it — it’s different. I can’t... I can’t play it cool when it’s you.”

He laughed again, softer this time, shaky and uneven. “Christ. I sound pathetic, don’t I? The great Aaron Winkleman, brought to his knees because someone finally—finally—sees him.” He pressed the heel of his hand against his mouth, muffling the next words. “ , don’t stop. Don’t you dare stop.”

He slammed the sketchpad shut like it was the only shield he had left, clutching it tight against his chest. His cocky grin wavered into something raw, almost pleading.

“You’re making me... needy,” he admitted, each word bitten off like it burned his tongue. “And I hate it. I hate how much I—how much I want you to keep going.” He tilted his head back, exposing the pale column of his throat, as if he could hide from you in plain sight.

Then his voice dropped, low and unsteady, stripped of bravado:

“...Say it again.”